Comes the Dark Stranger (6 page)

7

I
t
was completely dark when he awoke, and for several minutes he lay on the bed, staring into space and wondering where he was. After a while something clicked inside and he remembered.

He swung his legs to the floor and switched on the bedside lamp. When he glanced at his watch he found to his surprise that it was only six-thirty. He had slept for a little over an hour, and yet he felt curiously refreshed and his headache had gone completely.

He was still wearing his damp trench-coat, and he peeled it off and went into the bathroom. As he ran hot water into the basin, he examined his face in the mirror. There was a slight bruise on his right cheek where his attacker had grazed him with a fist. He touched it gently with a finger, wincing slightly at the pain, and he thought about Joe Wilby and was suddenly angry.

He washed his face quickly and changed into a clean shirt. Five minutes later he left his room and went downstairs. Outside the fog was thicker than ever and a steady drizzle was falling. He pulled his collar up around his neck and walked rapidly through the centre of the town.

The Garland Club was in St Michael’s Square, a quiet backwater near the town hall. Its gracious Georgian houses seemed to be mainly occupied as offices by solicitors and other professional men. The Garland Club looked slightly out of character with its neon light and striped awning.

The square was almost deserted, and when Shane mounted the steps to the glass door he found it locked. Inside, a man in red uniform trousers and shirt sleeves was busily mopping the tiled floor, and he came to the door and unlocked it, a look of exasperation on his face.

‘Sorry, sir. We don’t open until eight.’

Shane stuck his foot quickly in the door. ‘I’m not a customer,’ he said. ‘I’m looking for Mr Steele.’

The man frowned. ‘You’re wasting your time. He never comes in before nine.’

‘Where can I find him?’ Shane persisted. ‘It’s rather urgent. Will he be at home?’

The man shook his head. ‘He’s usually at his other place at this time. Club Eight it’s called.’ Shane pulled his foot away, and the man locked the door and went back to his work.

Shane went into a telephone box and looked the club up in the directory. It was about a mile away on the fringe of the town centre, and he decided to walk.

The entrance was in a seedy street with a wholesale clothing warehouse on one side and an alley on the other. He walked along a narrow, carpetless passage until he came to a door. It refused to open and he knocked.

A tiny grill opened and a pair of hard eyes stared out at him. ‘Membership card, please,’ a voice said roughly.

Shane shook his head. ‘I haven’t got one. I’m a friend of Mr Steele’s.’

The grill shut and the door opened at once. The man was wearing a greasy dinner jacket and soiled white cricket shirt. His black bow-tie was of the press-stud variety. ‘If the boss told you to come, then I guess that’s all right,’ he said. ‘Sign the book, please.’

Shane leaned over the battered desk. He hesitated for a moment, and then wrote ‘Raymond Hunt’ with a flourish. ‘Has Mr Steele been in yet?’ he asked as he laid down the pen.

‘Not yet, sir,’ he man said. ‘That’ll be ten shillings membership fee, please.’ Shane gave him a pound note and told him to keep it. The man grinned, exposing green-encrusted stumps. ‘I’ll bring you your membership card at the bar, sir,’ he said, and moved into his tiny office.

Shane went through a door at the far end of the passage and found himself standing at the top of a short flight of steps. The dance floor was below, ringed by tables tightly packed together. A four-piece band on a tiny rostrum was doing its best to blow the roof off. He descended the steps and went across to the bar in the corner.

The room was far from crowded, and there seemed to be more women than men. He sat on a tall stool in a corner of the bar, his back against the wall. The barman was bending over the sink rinsing a glass, and when he straightened up Shane saw to his surprise that it was Joe Wilby.

An expression of astonishment appeared on Wilby’s face, but it was quickly replaced by a scowl. He came forward and leaned across the bar. ‘Who the hell told you I worked here?’ he demanded. ‘Was it Bella?’

‘I didn’t need any help,’ Shane told him. ‘I just followed my nose.’

Wilby’s great hands gripped the edge of the bar convulsively, and Shane went on, ‘By the way, I met a friend of yours this afternoon. He asked me to give you a message. Said he’d had a slight accident and wouldn’t be able to collect on that fiver after all.’

Wilby’s face seemed to turn purple, and murder shone in his eyes, ‘All right, you clever sod. You’ll get yours soon enough.’

Shane lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke into Wilby’s face. ‘Now you’re really frightening me.’ He smiled contemptuously. ‘Get me a beer before I forget myself.’

Wilby brought the drink without another word, and went and stood at the far end of the bar and polished glasses, a scowl on his face. After a moment he seemed to come to a sudden decision. He lifted the flap at the end of the bar, pushed his way through the crowd and disappeared through the entrance.

Shane frowned slightly, wondering what the big man was up to, and then he shrugged and turned to examine the other patrons. Most of the women were obvious prostitutes, heavily made-up, and wearing dresses that stayed just within the bounds of decency.

There was a thin sprinkling of the fat and balding type of commercial traveller, on the loose in a strange town and determined to have his own peculiar version of what constituted a good time. On the whole the men were a rough lot, mostly small-time crooks and backstreet toughs from the look of them, all sporting the usual extremes in dress.

There was no sign of Reggie Steele, and as Shane raised his glass to swallow the rest of his beer he became aware of a young woman at his side. She was holding an unlit cigarette in one hand, and looked at him tentatively. He grinned and held out a match for her.

Underneath the make-up she was hardly more than a girl, and there was a certain animal attractiveness about her firm young body. At that moment Wilby shouldered his way through the crowd and went back behind the bar, and Shane grinned at the girl. ‘Would you like a drink?’

‘I’ve never been known to refuse.’ She sat on the stool next to him. Her tight skirt slid a good four inches above her knees, and she made no attempt to pull it down. ‘I’ll have a gin and orange, if it’s all right with you.’

He gave Wilby the order, and when it came she raised her glass. ‘My name’s Jenny Green. What’s yours? I haven’t seen you in here before.’

‘Raymond Hunt,’ he told her. ‘I’m just in town on a visit.’

She leaned across, her blouse gaping so that he could see the deep valley between her breasts. ‘We’ll have to see what we can do to make your stay a pleasant one.’

Before Shane could reply, there was a tap on his shoulder, and he turned to face the man who had admitted him into the club. He smiled hugely, baring his filthy teeth, and held out a pound note. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ve just discovered our membership list is full.’

Wilby was moving round the bar, a policeman’s baton in one hand, and a sudden hush fell upon the crowd. Shane decided he’d had enough for one night and took the pound from between the man’s fingers.

The girl was already melting into the crowd and he shrugged, strolled past the manager and mounted the steps. The manager walked behind him and when they reached the door, he unlocked it and stood to one side. ‘Good night, sir. Sorry we can’t oblige.’

‘It’s been fun,’ Shane assured him and went out.

He paused on the corner of the alley to light a cigarette. There was a sudden hiss and Jenny appeared from the fog. ‘There’s an emergency exit,’ she explained. ‘In case of cops.’

Shane sighed. ‘Now don’t start getting any ideas,’ he told her.

She grinned. ‘Don’t flatter yourself. Tell me, what were you doing in there?’

‘Looking for Reggie Steele,’ he said.

She frowned, suddenly distant. ‘Are you a friend of his?’

He shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think you could describe me as that.’

She was immediately friendly again. ‘If he isn’t here by this time he won’t be coming. You’ll probably find him at the Garland Club by now.’

‘And how do I get in there?’ he said.

She opened her handbag and took out a small white card. ‘You’ll have to pay a pound for membership, but if you hand the reception clerk this card, he’ll sign you in.’

’Thanks a lot,’ Shane said. He started to turn away and then hesitated. ‘I hope nobody saw you follow me out. I wouldn’t like to see you getting into trouble on my account.’

She grinned, teeth flashing in the darkness. ‘You don’t need to worry about me. I can take care of myself.’

She leaned back against the wall and pulled him against her. He could feel the warmth of her soft young body and he rested his hands lightly on her shoulders. ‘Just tell me one thing,’ she said. ‘Raymond isn’t your real name, is it?’

He smiled down at her. ‘No — it’s Martin. Martin Shane.’

She nodded soberly. ‘Yes, it suits you much better.’ She pulled down his head and crushed his mouth against hers and then she pushed him away and hurried back into the alley.

He took out a handkerchief and wiped the lipstick from his mouth. ‘Good-bye, Jenny,’ he called softly.

’So long, Martin,’ her voice replied from the darkness, and then a door banged and he turned away.

The streets seemed to have come alive as he walked briskly through the centre of town and when he turned into St Michael’s Square, he found it crowded with parked cars.

The man who had been mopping up the floor earlier, now stood outside the Garland Club in an imposing red and gold uniform. As Shane approached along the pavement, the doorman opened one of the glass doors and saluted smartly as a tall man in a dark overcoat moved out.

The man raised his wrist to glance at his watch and Shane saw his face clearly in the bright shaft of light from the club doorway. It was Adam Crowther.

As Crowther stepped off the pavement, Shane called out to him and Crowther glanced over his shoulder. He seemed to hesitate for a moment and then he limped heavily across the road and got into a small saloon car. Shane ran forward, but had to jump back quickly out of harm’s way as another car flashed past. By that time the saloon car was already moving away and as he watched, it turned the corner and disappeared.

For a little while Shane stood there at the pavement’s edge, staring into the night, eyes narrowed as he considered the possible explanations for Crowther’s presence at the Garland Club.

After a few moments he turned and walked towards the entrance. The whole thing was beginning to get very complicated, he decided and as he passed through the glass doors, there was a frown on his face.

8

A
WHITE-HAIRED,
foreign-looking man moved forward and said smoothly, ‘Members only, sir.’

Shane handed him Jenny Green’s card and the man examined it, his face expressionless. ‘Will you just step over here and sign the book, sir?’ he said, and Shane followed him across to a small reception desk.

He signed his own name and the man examined the entry. When he looked up there was a slight smile on his face. ‘The membership fee is one pound, Mr Shane.’

Shane handed him a banknote and the man called a girl over from the cloakroom on the other side of the foyer. As she helped Shane off with his coat he said, ‘Didn’t I see Mr Crowther leaving the club as I came along the street? Mr Adam Crowther?’

The man frowned slightly as if thinking. ‘Mr Crowther, sir? No, I don’t think we have a member by that name. He went across to his desk and flicked through the membership book. After a moment he turned, a smile of apology on his face. ‘You must have been mistaken, sir. There has been no one by that name in the club tonight.’

Shane thanked him and handed him a pound. The man bowed slightly and stood to one side. ‘Thank you very much, sir. I hope you enjoy your evening with us.’

There was some undercurrent of meaning in his voice and when Shane had walked a little way along the corridor he paused and glanced back. The man was looking after him and talking busily into the mouthpiece of a telephone receiver.

Shane moved along the red-carpeted corridor, his senses alert for trouble. As he approached the open door at the far end, there was a burst of applause. He passed through the door and came out on to a tiny balcony.

Wide stairs dropped down into a crowded dining-room. Above the tables there was a raised cat-walk and scantily dressed showgirls were engaged in a dance routine.

A small, bird-like Italian was standing at the top of the stairs watching the show. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Shane and turned quickly his face illuminated by a smile. ‘Good evening, sir. Can I get you a table?’

Shane waved him away. ‘Not just now. I think I’ll have a drink at the bar.’

He went down the stairs and made his way through the crowd to the bar and ordered a drink. When it came, he stood with his back to the bar and looked around him. The customers on the whole looked pretty respectable. Most of them were middle-aged business men who were obviously enjoying themselves hugely. Probably their wives didn’t even know they were there.

The noise was deafening. Half a dozen girls came out on to the cat-walk and did a can-can. Shane was almost underneath them and got a pretty good view as they flounced by. They were the usual brassy-faced tarts with too much make-up and dyed hair. Each time they did a high kick they screamed and shouted as if they were enjoying themselves and the audience applauded loudly.

He stayed there for another half-hour, watching the show and keeping an eye open for Reggie Steele. As he ordered his third drink, he noticed the man who had been at the door standing on the stairs, his eyes travelling round the room. As they met Shane’s he started violently and descended into the crowd. Shane watched him thread his way between the tables and disappear through a door at the side of the stage.

At that moment there was a drum roll and a slim figure appeared on the stage. There was a tremendous burst of cheering from the audience and she paraded along the cat-walk and took up position a few feet away from Shane. Their eyes met and an impudent grin appeared on her face. It was Jenny Green.

She winked and Shane concealed his astonishment and waved to her. She was wearing black fishnet stockings and very little else. A wisp of gold material around her loins gave her some sort of covering and her breasts were tipped with two gold flowers. A curtain descended over the stage and she began to speak.

It was the usual sort of act. Famous women down through the ages. Each time she announced a name, the curtain rose, disclosing a nude tableau and various fleshy young women did their best to depict Eve in the Garden of Eden, Helen of Troy and others.

The whole thing lasted for about ten minutes and the audience applauded each scene wildly. As the curtain descended on the last tableau, Jennie swivelled round, arms extended and bowed. She looked directly at Shane and smiled and then she turned and ran along the catwalk to the stage and disappeared behind the curtain.

Shane finished his drink and pushed his way through the crowd towards the door at the side of the stage. He opened it and mounted a short flight of steps that carried him into the wings. One or two stage hands lounged against the wall, smoking and chatting. They completely ignored him and he moved past them and mounted a flight of iron stairs.

He came into a corridor, lined with doors and as he walked forward, one of them opened to a burst of laughter and Jenny Green walked out. She turned so quickly they collided and when she looked up at him there was surprise on her face. ‘I run into you everywhere,’ she said.

He grinned. ‘You must have moved fast to get here in time for your show.’

She shrugged. ‘There were a few of the girls there. We came together in a taxi.’ She smiled impishly. ‘You wouldn’t be looking for me, would you?’

He shook his head. ‘Not tonight, Jenny. I’m looking for Reggie Steele.’

She turned and pointed along the corridor. ‘It’s the end door. The one with his name on it. You can’t miss it.’ She grinned. ‘I’ll see you later, handsome,’ and went back into her dressing-room.

He mounted a couple of steps and found himself in another level of the corridor. It was thickly carpeted and facing him was a door on which was inscribed Steele’s name in gold lettering.

For a moment he hesitated, listening for some sound through the half open transom and then he was conscious of a movement behind him and turned quickly.

A tall, broad shouldered man was standing two or three feet away, watching him. Dark, wavy hair curled thickly over his forehead and a puckered scar bisected the right cheek, giving him an oddly sinister appearance.

‘What’s the game, Jack?’ he said.

Shane looked him up and down and said coldly, ‘I’m looking for Mr Steele - Jack.’ An ugly expression appeared in the man’s eyes and Shane turned quickly, opened the door and went in.

The room was decorated in cream and gold and a fire flickered in a superb Adam fireplace. Steele was sitting behind a desk, papers spread out before him and he looked up with a start.

For several moments he and Shane looked steadily into each other’s eyes and then Steele’s mouth twisted into a grin. ‘Hallo, Shane, I’ve been expecting you. What kept you?’

The man behind Shane moved into the room. ‘I found this mug standing outside the door listening, boss,’ he said.

Steele got to his feet and waved one hand. ‘That’s all right, Frenchy. Mr Shane and I are old friends. Very old friends.’ The door closed quietly as Frenchy retreated and they were alone.

Steele went to a cocktail cabinet and lifted a bottle. ‘Whisky all right for you?’

Shane nodded and lit a cigarette. ‘I couldn’t remember what you looked like,’ he said, ‘But as soon as I came through that door, I remembered you instantly and everything about you. This is just the sort of thing I used to imagine you being mixed up in.’

Steele handed him a drink and sat down behind the desk again. ‘I’m not complaining,’ he said. ‘I’ve done very well out of this little set-up.’

His dinner jacket was superbly cut and the cigarette case he produced from his inside pocket was platinum. The clipped moustache gave him a handsome, rakish look, but underneath the full lips the chin was weak and effeminate. He blew a spiral of smoke towards the ceiling. ‘I hear you’ve been causing a bit of a stir over at my other place?’

Shane raised his eyebrows. ‘Who told you - Wilby?’

Steele grinned. ‘Poor old Joe. You’ve really frightened him, you know. He seems to think you’re going to knock him off at any moment.’

‘You know why I’m here then?’ Shane said.

Steele nodded casually. ‘Yes, he did say something about it.’

‘And what about Adam Crowther?’ Shane said. ‘What did he have to say?’

Steele seemed genuinely surprised. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? I haven’t seen Crowther for months.’

‘That’s damned funny,’ Shane said, ‘Considering that I saw him leaving the club not more than half an hour ago.’

Steele shook his head. ‘You must have been mistaken.’

Shane clenched his fists and tried to control himself. ‘You’re lying,’ he said.

Steele smiled politely. ‘Am I, old man?’

There was a moment’s silence and Shane said softly, ‘Was it you, Reggie?’

Steele raised his glass and looked straight into his eyes. ‘And what if I say it was?’

Shane’s hand dipped into his jacket pocket and came out holding the Luger. ‘If it was, I’m going to kill you here and now,’ he said hoarsely.

Steele gazed into the muzzle of the gun for a moment and then suddenly he threw back his head and laughed. ‘No, I didn’t talk to that Chinese bastard and even if I had done, I certainly wouldn’t tell you.’ He leaned across the desk and pushed the barrel of the Luger away from him. ‘For God’s sake put that thing away before they put you back in the madhouse.’

Shane replaced the Luger in his pocket and walked slowly towards the door. When he reached it he turned and his eyes were burning. ‘The minute I prove it’s you, I swear I’ll kill you,’ he said.

Steele laughed lightly and shook his head. ‘I know you better than you know yourself, Shane. Killing Chinese in Korea was one thing, but killing me now in cold blood would be quite another. You’ll never summon up the nerve to pull that trigger until you’re absolutely sure and you’ll never be able to get your proof. It’s been too long.’

Shane shook his head and said coldly, ‘I’ll get my proof and if it turns out to be you, I’ll be coming for you.’ He closed the door and moved along the corridor.

Jenny Green was leaning in the open doorway of her dressing-room and as he approached, she grinned. ‘You look like a wet weekend.’

He tried to smile. ‘I’m tired, that’s all.’

She slipped one of the club cards into his hand. ‘I’ve written my address on the other side. Just in case you feel like calling.’

There was a slight movement behind and Shane turned quickly and found Frenchy standing watching them. ‘Is this mug bothering you, kid?’ he said to Jenny.

There was fear in her eyes and she shook her head quickly. ‘No, Frenchy, it’s all right. Just a friend.’ She smiled briefly at Shane, and disappeared into her dressing-room, closing the door.

As Shane started to move away, Frenchy grabbed his arm. ‘Mr Steele doesn’t like people to bother the girls, Jack.’ His fingers felt like steel bands as he deliberately exerted all his considerable strength.

‘I wish you wouldn’t call me Jack. It isn’t my name,’ Shane said coolly. His free hand darted forward and fastened around Frenchy’s left arm just below the elbow, his thumb biting into the pressure point.

An expression of purest agony flooded over Frenchy’s face and as he staggered back, Shane kicked him under the left knee-cap. He left him there, half-collapsed against the wall, mouthing obscenities and went down the steps that led to the stage.

It was only a little after nine when he left the club and walked back through the streets to his hotel. The fog seemed to move in on him with a terrible weightless pressure that made him dizzy and light-headed.

There was a dull ache behind his eyes and he felt weak and drained of all emotion. He got his key from the night porter at the desk and mounted the stairs to his room.

It was quiet in there - too quiet and he was filled with a vague irrational unease. He lay on the bed in the dark and when he closed his eyes, coloured images flashed through his mind and night had a thousand faces.

He had been lying there for five or ten minutes only when he heard a sound that made the flesh crawl across his body. Someone was moving across the floor of the room upstairs. Someone who dragged one foot behind him that slithered horribly over the floor.

He lay there for several moments slightly raised on one arm, staring up at the ceiling, the hair lifting on the back of his neck. As the cold fear surged into his mouth, he scrambled from his bed, wrenched open his door and ran along the corridor looking for the stairs which led to the next floor.

There were no stairs, but at the end of the corridor he found a door which was locked. He pulled at it vainly for a moment or two and then hurried downstairs to the hall and went to the desk.

‘I want to know who’s staying in the room above mine,’ he said.

The porter looked at him in astonishment. ‘But there isn’t anyone in a room above you, sir. There’s only the attics up there.’

‘But I can hear someone walking about above my room,’ Shane persisted.

The man shook his head. ‘That’s impossible sir. The door to the top stairs is locked and there’s only one key. I’ve got it here.’

He lifted it down from a nail and held it up. Shane’s stomach was suddenly empty and for a moment he closed his eyes. When he opened them again he said carefully, ‘Would you mind if we take a look? I’m almost certain I heard someone moving about up there’.

The man nodded and lifted the flap of the counter. ‘Certainly, sir. I’ll come up with you myself.’

They went up to the top corridor and the porter unlocked the door which gave access to the attic stairs. He switched on a light and went up cautiously, Shane at his heels. When they reached the top, they crossed a small landing and entered an attic which stretched the length of the building. It was completely empty, the harsh light of a naked bulb reaching into the farthest corners.

The porter turned with a little laugh. ‘Well, there you are. There’s no one up here. You must have imagined it, sir.’

Shane nodded slowly and led the way back downstairs. He waited for the porter to lock the door and then walked along the corridor with him. When they reached the stairhead he said, ‘I’m sorry I troubled you.’

The porter looked at him searchingly. ‘Excuse me for mentioning it, sir, but you don’t look too good to me. Is there anything I can get you?’